


Promise

by CommonEvilMastermind



Series: I Come To You With Nothing [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Extended Epilogue, F/M, Mawwiage, requested scenes, taking care of each other, the balm for sore muscles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 10:58:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8203213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonEvilMastermind/pseuds/CommonEvilMastermind
Summary: An extended epilogue of "I Come To You With Nothing."





	1. Return

Returning to Skyhold is odd, like a glove that no longer quite fits. He watches her as they ride – her spine straightens, stiffens, and her shoulders set. Her smile is not so wild, and her words are measured and deliberate. She wears the mantle of Inquisitor like armor around her soul.

He watches her and he is proud.

And he misses their small room in the alienage.

They had talked in the dark, in gentle voices as Skyhold draws near, about what they should say and to whom. She would shout it from the top of the mountain, banish the baying pack of suitors that nip constantly at her heels. He is more cautious, citing Josephine’s web of diplomacy and his own wish to avoid public attention. The Inquisitor’s husband would fall under no small amount of scrutiny.

“I suppose,” she grumbles into his shoulder. They have laid out their bedrolls near the fire, side by side, and she is wrapped around his back like she is a very cozy knapsack. When she speaks, her lips brush his shoulder or the hollow of his neck, or sometimes the sharp curve of his ear. It is very distracting.

“Solas?”

“Yes?” Her leg is draped over his side and he does not need to resist the impulse to run his fingers over the strong, warm curves.

She huffs in amusement and pushes him. He turns, obliging, until he is looking up at the treetops and she has tucked herself into him, resting on his shoulder. He reaches for her hand – their fingers twine, resting on his chest. “I said, I want to tell them. Our friends.”

“Ah.” He gathers his wits back from where they have strayed and considers the matter. Thinks of Cole’s bright smile and Varric’s laughter and the little bit of joy they have found, here at the ending of the world. “Yes,” he says.

“Yes?” She twists her head to look at him. “Yes? Just like that?”

“They are important to you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And it will be pleasant to find my bed free of small reptiles once more.”

She is laughing. “Sera?”

“Madame de Fer, actually. She was rather displeased with me when… when you returned from Crestwood.”

“When you left.”

“I – yes.” The silence is thick. There are still things he must say, things she still must know.

“Solas?”

“Yes?” He braces.

“I’m glad you came back.”

“As am I.” He almost tells her then, almost pulls the words from the darkest part of his past, almost lays out his secrets here, under the trees and the stars and the singing of the wind. But she presses her lips to his skin and time means little. The only word he can find is her name, over and over, which he tells to the trees and the stars and the singing wind.


	2. The Balm For Sore Muscles

It’s a sign of her exhaustion that she does not look up when the door to their chambers opens. His heart has the ears of a scout, and the nerves of one who is on the edge of battle. But she’s pushed herself since they returned, the woman he loves consumed by the weight of the Inquisition. He can see the tension in her shoulders, her brow, in the way she shakes out her cramping hand as she bends over a pile of reports in the dim candle light.

“ _Vhenan,_ ” he says softly, trying not to startle her. But she jumps, nearly overturning her ink bottle. He rescues it deftly.

“Solas!” She rubs her face, smearing ink across her cheek. “You scared me.”

“My apologies.” He catches her hands before she can do more damage, kisses her palms. “You were absorbed in your work.”

“Reports.” She scowls at the desk between them, its heavy carpeting of documents. “Trying to find where Corypheus will strike. When.”

“And?”

“Nothing.” She peers up at him. “No word from any spirits?”

“No,” he says firmly. “And it is time to be done with your work for the evening.”

“I still have-” she makes a half-hearted attempt to pull her hands away. He presses his thumb into the heel of her palm, rubs in a firm circle.

“It is time to be done with your work for the evening,” he repeats gently.

She scowls at him, even as she melts into his touch. “Cheater.”

“I am merely asking you,” he says, pressing his lips to her palm. “As your husband.”

“Cheat.”

He kisses the tips of her fingers, slowly. One by one.

She watches him, eyes shining, and swallows. Hard. “Cheat,” she whispers.

“A tactic I learned from the best,” he says, coaxing her to stand.

She makes a face. “That doesn’t count, you had been lost in that book for two days straight-”

“How long as it been since you slept?”

On her feet, she wavers, thinking. “Less than two days.”

“Are you sure?”

“Fine.” She mutters darkly, burying her face in his shoulder instead of walking. “Sleeping is stupid.”

“When Corypheus is defeated, I will show you how to walk the Fade in your dreams,” he promises, holding her close. “Then you shall properly appreciate your rest.”

“Can’t,” she protests into his shirt. “Not a mage.”

“You hold that potential inside you, like all of our kind.” He traces firm patterns at the base of her skull with one thumb, and she groans in appreciation. “It can be done.”

“Really?” She blinks up at him. “I could go with you?”

“You could.”

“See those battles?”

“Indeed.”

“Meet the spirits?”

“If you wish.”

“Oh.” She rests her head on his collarbone. “Yes. I like this plan.”

“I am fond of it as well.” And he is. They have said nothing, before this, made no thought for “after.” There are only the bands around their fingers, matching heavy silver, that mark a promise. Whatever happens, it will be together.

Assuming, of course, that the strength of that promise is enough to endure the truth. He hopes. He does not know.

She sighs, a happy, tired, sound, as if she is fully prepared to fall asleep standing up against his shoulder. He does not doubt that she is capable. He bends down and picks her up easily. She makes a token grumble and wraps her arms around his neck so firmly that he has difficulty disentangling himself when he deposits her on the bed.

Their bed.

She grumbles again as he pulls away, trying to drag him down beside her. He dodges deftly, and she opens one eye to glare at him.

“Wait,” he tells her, amused, and fetches the bundle he deposited on a table when he walked into their chambers. “Take off your tunic.”

“Dun wanna bang,” she complains. “It’s too sleepy.”

“Lovemaking was not my intent,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I mean to fulfil a promise.”

“Not sex?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Wha-?”

“ _Vhenan,_ ” he says, and she quiets, peering at him suspiciously through half-lidded eyes. He shakes his head with a smile and bends to the task of undoing the many, many clasps of her tunic.

She allows him to undress her, to peel away the layers of her leadership. His touch is gentle, no demands, not pressing. He simply peels away her jacket, her leggings, undoes the complex wrapping that winds around her feet and calves. The wrapping he had wound himself that afternoon as she changed for a meeting with visiting Ativan dignitaries.

When she is in nothing but her skin, he coaxes her to lay on her stomach. She complies slowly, with too much grouching about the chill in the air and the strangeness of his behavior. He raises an eyebrow, amused, but does whisper a word to the surrounding air as he rolls his sleeves to his elbows. The mountain chill fades around them, replaced by the cozy warmth of a summer afternoon.

“’s nice.” She stretches in their bed, pawing at the covers. He pulls them back, despite her protests. “Solas-“ she mutters darkly.

“ _Vhenan,_ ” he chides. She buries the rest of her complaints into the pillow, making him smile. He lifts the lid from the small jar in his bundle. The scent that rises is fragrant, spicy with herbs. The paste inside is cloudy and thick. He scoops it up liberally and, with a flicker of mischief, applies it straight to her back.

“ACK.” She flails underneath his hands. “That’s _cold,_ why is it cold?! Solas, I thought you loved me.” She protests woefully, the utmost betrayal.

“You would not stay still,” he retorts, spreading his ointment onto her skin.

She sneezes unhappily into the pillow, conveying her sadness wonderfully.

He is unmoved, shushing her gently as he kneels next to her on the bed and sets to work. Lightly – not too firm – he starts at her shoulders, warming the ointment with long, smooth passes of his hands. His salve melts with the heat of her, the heat of his hands, turns to oil that shines on her skin.

She murmurs softly, pleased.

He takes his time. It’s not easy, with her – he has waited, endured, for so long. There are moments he wants, needs, to rush. To claim her, hold her, keep her pressed tight against him less she slips away. Less he wakes, to find this all a dream.  But he lets his worry, his panic, slip away, turning himself to being here, and no place else. He is here, and no place else. Her bare skin is perfect under his hands, and her muscles start to loosen as they warm.

She melts. Into the bed. Into his hands. She is fire and spit and sass, she is a wonderful and terrible thing. She deals death and life in equal measure; she is worshiped as a god.

And here, tonight, she glows in the light of the few candles. The flickering shadows are warm and golden where they slide along her spine. He traces them, traces the lines of her body – the crest of her shoulder, down her bicep, her forearm, to the tips of each finger. The sway of her torso, the sweet curve of her rear, the smooth strength of her legs, down to her feet, down to the end of each toe.

He has done so much damage in his life. His hands ache, sometimes, heavy with the weight, with the blood he has spilled. The healer has the bloodiest hands, and he has made a mockery of the healing he has done. But not tonight. Tonight he breathes in candlelight, fills his lungs with rest and healing, love and peace, and when he breathes out he feels the flow if it sink through his palms, work into her skin.

Tonight, he delights in the pleasure he can bring her with his gentle, broken, lover’s hands.

The spicy scent of the salve fades as it warms, as he works it into her sore muscles, as she melts in his care. It is enchanted – just slightly – to carry the heat and the healing and the candlelight into her skin, to banish the tension and the aches that she carries there. He smooths the kinks in her back, loosens the iron bands of her neck, runs his oiled fingers in slow, gentle circles over her scalp.

Her breathing is slow, soft and steady. When he brushes her hair from her face, gathers it at the nape of her neck, her eyes are closed. She is as peaceful as he has ever seen.

He loses track of the time he spends, soothing her cares away. His hands grow weary, his own neck tight. However long it is, it is not long enough before the final candle gutters down. She is asleep, and he is exhausted.

He strips off his tunic, undershirt, leggings and lies down beside her, drawing up the covers. The sheets are likely oil-stained beyond saving, but he does not find it inside him to care. He watches her sleep, one hand still on the small of her back, and allows himself to drink in the sight of her.

Her eyelashes flutter, shadows on her cheek. “Solas?” she says, soft as the wind.

“ _Vhenan,_ ” he murmurs, tucks her hair behind her ear.

“Thank you,” she breathes. It’s only with great effort that she shifts herself towards him. He obliges, drawing her into the curve of his arms.

“ _You are welcome, my love.”_


	3. The Plan

It does not go as he had planned.

This is not surprising. Rather, it should not be surprising. Nothing, absolutely nothing, goes as he plans when it comes to her. Not the anchor, not the Breach, not the Inquisition, not Haven or Skyhold, not Adamant, not Halamshiral, and certainly not the Fade or the Temple of Mythal. Not Crestwood. Not the alienage.

He had woken up intent on the destruction of the world. Instead, he has a wife. And a family. Two families, even, if you count the Inquisition and the alienage. Which he does. And none of it, absolutely none of it, has even approached anything he dared to plan.

There is a saying among the advisors: no plan survives first contact with Lavellan. It is a saying because it is true.

So he is not surprised when it does not go according to plan. He is, for a fleeting second, almost comforted. At least these things are predictable.

“Solas?” she had asked one morning, not long after the fall of Corypheus.

“Hmm?” he is trying to retrieve the boiling kettle from over the hearth, so he can make tea. Not that his opinion of the drink had changed, but. She loves tea.

She flops down on the couch in front of the hearth, where they often sit and wake up in the mornings. “Cole said I should ask you something.”

He misjudges his grip on the kettle and it falls into the flames, spilling the boiling water onto hot coals. He leaps back, then overbalances as she grabs him by the tunic and hauls him further back.

The hearth sizzles in a ashy, smoky mess.

She grabs his hands, examining his palms intently for sign of injury.

“I am fine,” he assures her, hopes she does not notice the slight tremble in his fingers. “My grip was not secure.”

She peers up at him, seemingly not reassured by what she discovers there. “Is it that bad?”

“My-“

“No. What I’m supposed to ask you.”

He lets out a long, long breath.

She gnaws on her lip. “Do you want to talk about it now?”

“No.” He looks away, out the window. It’s bright, and the fortress is coming alive in the weak spring sunshine. “And yes.”

“Whenever you-“

He is not worthy of her. She should know why. She should have known why, before. He should not have let her make such promises. He should not have let her marry him.

“Solas?”

He is twisting his wedding band around his finger.

Her eyes are wide and bright and open.

“We should sit down,” he says softly.

~

He had-

He had had a speech. Not a speech. A story. Not a story. He had, had thought of, some way to tell her. Had rehearsed it. Over and over.

Imagined her face.

Would she weep, betrayed?

Would she shout? Roar in anger, in fury, tear into his skin?

Or anger gone cold, fury like ice, face like stone. She would grab his hand, tear the ring from his finger, throw it out of the window, down the mountain. She would spit on their marriage contract until their names ran and bled, she would rip it to pieces, toss it in the fire, throw it down the privy-

She would-

She-

He had never once imagined that she would sit there, head tilted, blinking like an owl in the sun.

She did not weep or scream or rip things.

She stood, slowly. (He does not breathe)

She turned.

She walked down the stairs, to the door to the keep.

She opened it.

She walked through.

She closed the door behind her.

He stared at the closed door for a century before sinking slowly to his knees.

He has lost her.

 

 

 

_No._

 

 

_Please, no._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He does not hear the footsteps. A touch on his head. He starts.

She cups his cheek, kisses him. Softly.

“It’s okay,” she says.

“I’ll be back,” she says.

Then she is gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alona. So rude.


End file.
